


Just In Case

by dee-light (DraloreShimare)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Series 2 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:11:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraloreShimare/pseuds/dee-light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first time in a long time he stares into the mirror and really sees himself, as outsiders see him. He’s never cared before, not really.</p>
<p>Edited 4/15/12.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just In Case

**Author's Note:**

> 4/15/12 - Now beta'd by the lovely Trillian. Thank you, dear.

Less than a week after his death and he’s cropped his hair. At the end of it, he looks into the mirror, seeing his face. And it’s alien. He’s never really noticed his face before, (“it’s just my face, John”) but now his hair is buzzed short, the length bristling upwards without the weight of his curls. He strokes one long-fingered hand over his head, freeing loose bits to fall down onto his shoulders and into the sink before him. For the first time in years he stares into the mirror and really sees himself, as outsiders see him. He’s never cared before, not really, (“what do I care what people think, John?”) but suddenly, just for a moment, he does.

And he sees his high, sharp cheekbones and his full lips and the piercing eyes, now grey, now blue, and now green. How strange he appears, how surreal…he wonders if his features are what attracted all the stares he’s ignored over the years. Or was it his dark curls? He’s always been a little vain about those (“I put product in my hair.” “You wash your hair.”), and feels a twinge of remorse now that his head is nearly bare; the black loops scattered into and around the bathroom bin. Still, there’s not much he can do about it now. He’d needed a quick disguise, and ridding himself of his curly mane was easy. Just like contacting the homeless network for information or deducing the pattern of a serial killer.

Sherlock quits the bathroom, striding to the bed of his hotel room. The establishment is just this side of sleazy, with faded floral wallpaper, the sheets scratchy and threadbare; the bedside table supported on one side by a yellowed paperback book used so long for the purpose that the cover is dented and unreadable.

On the skinny mattress there’s a pile of clothes, his homeless network is just as good at gathering disguises as information, and he pulls the pair of jeans from the pile, and slips them onto his thin frame; the thick material hanging off his hips, and pooling around his legs. He snatches at the belt left in the pile (plain and well-worn but serviceable), and cinches them up around his waist. The navy t-shirt is a better fit, but still baggy, as is the jacket. He’d asked for clothes to disguise his build, and that’s just what they’ve delivered. He misses his tailored suits, strangely easy to run around London in, but he’s left all of those in his closet at 221B, remnants of a life before he died.

He’ll make do with what he has.

He’s throwing his sparse toiletries into a camouflage duffle (he’ll have to become accustomed now to hauling life around on his back), when he notices that Mycroft left him his coat and scarf; they’ve been shoved into the bottom, clean. Much good they’ll do him, he thinks. Both of them are just extra weight to carry around on his extended vacation.

But he runs his hand over the thick wool of the coat, slim fingers lingering on the topmost red button hole, and he remembers. Remembers John, and slipping down alleyways and turning up his coat collar (“being all mysterious, with your cheekbones”), and how it pools on the ground when he kneels next to a body and John is there kneeling next to him to give his expert medical opinion. Suddenly he can’t bear to leave it behind, despite how it will be deadweight and far too recognizable to wear in public. He swallows, folds it carefully, with the arms back and shoulder seams together, just so - preserving it.

Just in case there is life after death.

**Author's Note:**

> I pulled this bit out thanks to Stephanie, who basically told me I'd better write some Sherlock fanfic or else.


End file.
